Ted Lavender
by LeotardoDabinci
Summary: Ted Lavender's last days of life.


**XTed Lavender**

I didn't know what the hell I was doing there. I _hated_ the place. It was pointless to think, but I really hated the place. It was always so damn hot. And I never got used to the humidity. It made you feel heavy, like the energy was being sucked right from you. And you needed your energy, especially when you were carrying all the equipment.

I had a love-hate relationship with the equipment: you see, we all knew how important the equipment was—me better than anyone else—but the long hours of carrying all of it could make anyone hate it. The equipment was your life, and if you valued that life, you would best have your equipment. I carried extra everything because who the hell knew what could happen out there. My tranquilizers were the most important. This damn place always had me on edge. The noises you heard at night in the trees, you could never know what was roaming around out there. It's amazing what an imagination can do to a man, when you turn those little noises into an idea, an idea that can strike you with paralyzing fear. The noise leads to the idea, and the idea to the anxiety. When the anxiety started to kick in, the _Valium_ was the only thing that took the edge off. Almost made the place bearable—or at least not a living hell. Kiley said it was a benzodiazepine—whatever the hell that meant—and to watch the dosage. Apparently it calmed down the neurotransmitters in your mind. All I knew was the sweet effects of the drug put a temporary block on those negative ideas that haunted you every waking second: like a filter for the mind.

The rest of them acted like they had it all under control, like they weren't getting those same ideas that haunted you every moment, the ones that can drive you nuts. But it's funny, you know? Funny how they were all so concerned about how they appeared in front of each other. We were all scared to some extent—me in particular. But it's like they refused to show it except for a few short bursts where they really needed to fear for their lives. Everyone wanted to be the tough guy. The one who wasn't afraid. Actors is all they are, and they ain't even that great at it. You can't be great at it. I mean, all you had to do was look around. There were no tough guys there; the place was a death trap. Nobody went to that place with the confidence that they'd make it out alright. There must have been 1000 ways you could die there, and that was just from the environment. The animals could kill you too. Spiders, snakes, and blood-stealing mosquitoes were already enough, but if you factored in that you were in a warzone as well, it put your chances of survival down to about 50%. Like a damn coin-flip, you left your life to chance. You heard the stories all the time, people here one day and gone the next. Poof. Their whole life, their dreams and aspirations gone. You'd be surprised by how quickly you start value your life when it could be gone at any moment, snatched away before you even have a chance to react. And it was those fake tough guys that were first to go, running around like they had something to fight for. Idiots. This was war. Nobody was fighting for anyone but themselves. They'll tell you differently—trust me, I've heard it all. Tell you this was a war for freedom and democracy as they rounded you up and shipped you away beyond your control. The reality was that this war was nothing more than America trying to be the tough kid on the block. Because the politicians were scared too; scared of what would happen if communism enveloped the world, and they had to be tough. They were acting tough just like all the men trying to hide the fear. The thing is: fear will keep you alive.

* * *

It was April 15th. Our platoon had just been informed that we were to search and destroy the tunnels outside of Than Khe. Did I mention I hated that place? The tunnels were one of the worst jobs you could get: they were the tools that helped produce a secret underground network of supplies for the Viet Cong. They were full of booby traps, and if they were actively occupied, you would have to deal with armed fighters. It was easy to see why the guys in charge needed us to blow them away, but sending one of your men down into those things was asking for trouble. So far I was lucky—hadn't been picked to clear one out yet.

"We're heading out to Than Khe village at 18:00 today. It'll be a 2 hour hike," Cross said, with a look a look that let you know he wasn't concerned in his face, like he was preoccupied with something else. "We'll set up camp when we get close and do the job tomorrow morning."

"Who's going to search the tunnel this time?" I said, with a slight stutter giving away the omnipresent fear.

"We'll figure it out when we get there. Now everyone get ready to head out," Cross replied, still with an obvious lack of concern.

As we trudged along to the village, step after monotonous step, I couldn't help but think about home. It seemed like it had been so long since I had been home. Like home didn't exist anymore—it was a whole different life, and this, this jungle was my new life. It was surreal thinking that just 6 months ago I was still in the safe embrace of the United States. You don't realize how much you value that comfort and safety back in America until you come here. I wish I could have stayed—gone to college and gained some worthless knowledge. Maybe gotten a job in an electronics store. I learned to fix radios and TVs from tinkering around as a child. It was fun - interesting to understand how every little component worked. Anything but here right now would have been better, but I had to leave everything behind when, with a .28% chance, my birthdate was drawn by the Selective Service System. In a way, I guess my everything wasn't much, though. Everything was just Mom and Dad to me—didn't have any other ties. The other soldiers all had something: a girlfriend, family, or a nice car. It's not fair now that I think about it. I didn't have any of that—at least not yet. And instead of looking for a girl or a nice car, I was walking through the jungle with a bunch of tough guys, and the anxiety was creeping up, and my hands were shaking, and it was getting dark, and I kinda just wished I had something like they did, you know? Something to fight for other than the guys in the suits that sit at tables and orchestrate all of this. But now I was here, and I couldn't find a nice girl anymore. And I couldn't start a family. And maybe I'd never have a house or a car. For all I knew, my last and biggest accomplishment would be surviving in that shit-hole for 6 months and then dying, and that scared me. That's where the real fear came from: why I abused the drugs and smoked the dope.

"Alright. We'll stop here for tonight," Cross said, "Be ready to wake up at 6:00 and complete the job."

Cross wasn't really a great leader. There wasn't nothing really wrong with him, he just wasn't the type of guy you'd want to put your life in the hands of. He was always lost in his mind, or staring at his damned letters he was always getting. Today, he was sucking on some pebble just walking all zombie-like. Everyone knew he wouldn't talk much, so nobody asked why he had the thing. I didn't even care in particular; I just got even more anxious knowing my Lieutenant wasn't really concerned with what was going on.

I popped another tranq to get to sleep. The anxiety was coming back.

* * *

That night I dreamt of terrible things:

We were all sitting out by the tunnel. Whole platoon. Heart pounding as we began to draw numbers. Thoughts racing. "What would happen if I get number 17," is all I can think. I draw my number and the nightmare continues. It was 17. I had to clear the tunnel. This was it, I thought. This was the end. I crawled through the dark labyrinth that represented my darkest fear. It was terrible. There was no end, just more darkness as I continued on. The fear was paralyzing. I could not continue. I screamed back to the platoon, but nobody could hear me. The entrance that I came in seemingly no longer existed, just more darkness was present in that direction. Then the walls began to close. Harder and harder they pressed, crushing me. This was really it, I thought. It kept crushing and crushing. Crushing until I was dead.

_It was the drugs_. It had to be, right? I thought that maybe I should stop taking the pills every night to sleep, because the nightmares were only getting worse, and soon I'd be too scared to even sleep. And when you were too scared to stay awake, and too scared to sleep, what more was there?

It was April 16th, the day we were to do the drawing. There was such an uneasy feeling about the day. Just that feeling that there was something wrong, the one you felt deep in your gut. After a nightmare like that, I couldn't help but wonder if I was really gonna have to clear out the tunnel today. It was sure death, I knew it.

"Time to go. Let's hurry up and get this shit over with," Cross said.

Just like that we were off, and the nightmare was closer to becoming reality. The anxiety was already starting to creep up; sweat running down my forehead, hands trembling, heart rate at about 160 BPM. Mouth was so dry my tongue felt like sandpaper. I popped another _Valium_. There was only two left. I had been using them more than usual lately. Maybe the drugs would end up killing me, I thought. There was no choice though, the fear was paralyzing. The thought of the tunnel had me wanting to just shoot myself in the damn foot and earn a first-class ticket outta here. But like most, I couldn't bring myself to do it, so I pushed the fear as deep down as possible and started the march over.

My lungs felt heavy, and my heart ached. There it was. I could have thrown up. The tunnel was right there. The tunnel from my dream. The tunnel that made me lightheaded, my face go numb, and my legs go weak. The embodiment of fear. My breathing became heavier and the bad thoughts raced around my head in an endless feedback loop: Was I really about to have to go into that tunnel? please no. I have to get away. But where will I go? I'm scared. the guys are gonna think I'm a wuss. damn. I can't think straight right now. It'll be me they pick, it'll be me. I'll refuse. Just not gonna do it. I can't die.

I hated them for this. For putting me in this situation where I had to deal with this. They were going to kill me and they didn't even care. Murder. They don't care about any of us. Whether we die or not doesn't matter. It's all about the job. It's all about the war to them, when there's people out here that actually have to do this shit. Fighting their war. Those bastards. I wanted a life—a family.

XxXxxXXxxxxxxxxxXXxxXxXxx

* * *

In a little tin cup there laid slips of paper, each numbered 1-17. I couldn't stop staring at it. We were going to draw numbers soon to decide who was gonna have to go in that damn tunnel. There was roughly a 6% chance I would get selected. It was crazy how much a random drawing could affect your life. It felt like my fate had been determined by random chances and drawings ever since the Selective Service drawing. I had no control. It was a drawing that changed my life forever, and here was another drawing that could change me. If I got 17, it was over. My life had been put up to chance once more.

"I guess I'm up first," Cross said reaching into the cup.

He drew 9. My heart began to pound so hard in my chest I was sure it was going to explode any second. Each second seemed to move by in slow motion. This situation. I couldn't fathom it. "Please don't be me," I thought over and over again.

"You don't look so good over there Ted. The tunnels got you all riled up?" Rat Kiley asked in a condescending tone. Everyone chuckled at his question—it had an obvious answer.

Kiowa was next. He didn't seem scared. None of them did. Must have been more acting. He reached into the bucket causing a subsequent spike in my heart rate once again. 16. It was 16. Dammit. I began to wonder if I should just draw now and get it over with. No. I was too scared to even walk up to the cup.

"I guess I'll go ahead since none of you pansies want to draw a number," Lee Strunk muttered, revealing his contempt towards the rest of us.

Lee Strunk reached in. My gaze fixed on him as I eagerly waited for his result.

17\. Yes. It was 17. I was gonna be okay. Yes. Yes. Yes. Bad for Lee, but I was gonna be okay. Lee wanted to be the tough guy and I could hardly feel sorry for the guy. He practically asked for it.

"Whatever. I ain't afraid of no tunnel. I'll be done in less than 10 minutes," Lee said still trying to keep up his tough act. Like I said, nobody wanted to appear weak.

Lee entered the tunnel and the rest of us sat around and waited, making jokes about there being ghosts down in the tunnel. I didn't care about any of that though. I was happier than I had ever been since I got here. I couldn't explain it, but just not having to go into the tunnel made me feel better about everything. I thought it would inevitably be me, with that nightmare and all, but here I was alive. All the anxiety was gone. I felt normal for the first time just sitting out there with the guys. Maybe I really was going to make it out of here. Maybe I would still get that job at the electronics store. Maybe I could still go to college and meet a nice girl—buy a nice car...

* * *

I had to take a piss after nearly going in my pants during the number drawing. Strunk was complaining about something in the tunnel. I didn't care; neither did Cross. He was just sitting on his log staring off into the trees. I took a nice little walk to find a nice quiet place to piss. Looking around this time, the place didn't seem so bad anymore. The jungle was calm. It almost was, dare I say, beautiful. It was probably just the drugs, but I felt completely at peace. When Lee drew that 17 a burden was lifted. It was like a sign. A sign that things were going to get better. I was sure I was still gonna have to go on more dangerous missions, but I could make it through. Make it through until I was back home.

Releasing my bladder was a relief. I must have been holding it for 3 hours. I headed back to the tunnel entrance. The whole platoon was still sitting around laughing at Lee Strunk yelling and telling jokes about what was inside the tunnel. He was done and about to come out.

There he was: Lee Strunk emerged from the tunnel with a big smile on his face, happy with all the toughness he showed. I was happy too. For him and myself. For Cross. For my family and future. It was all gonna be okay. And in that very moment, I smiled for the first time since arriving in Vietnam.

And just like that it happened. The happiness was deceptive, hiding what really was about to come. It happened so fast that I couldn't even scream. Boom. Right in the head. I dropped like a sack of rocks. My lifeless body laid on the ground as the whole platoon looked on in shock.

"He's dead, the guy's dead. Ted's dead. They got him," Rat kept repeating like a broken record.

I was never going to make it out. Never going to have all those things I wanted. I was just the poor bastard Ted Lavender, who smoked dope and popped Valium's, that died at 19. And I lied to you: The fear won't keep you alive. Nothing will. The fear couldn't save me, because war didn't discriminate in who it killed. Tough guys, scared guys, innocent guys—it didn't matter. We are all ghosts now. It is all so damn ironic, and I can't stop laughing: I didn't even draw 17.

**My name is Ted Lavender. I died today, and my future is gone**.


End file.
